Satan Told Me To
by xxsurgical-suicidexx
Summary: Nny and his first and only crime he was convicted of, which the results. Why did he despise Dillon so much just for kicking his chair?
1. Gregory

Disclaimer: I don't own anything Vasquez here (namely Johnny), I don't get paid blah blah blah it straight out your ass. Just let me stand to the side first.  
  
Author's Note: A ficlet on Johnny's origins, different from the first blasphemous little bit I came up with. More realistic I guess. Satanic stuff! That's what Slayer as background music gets you.  
  
Satan Told Me To  
  
A wary looking youth with sallow beige skin and an empty amber gaze sat before the questioner, tautly restrained by a sweat-stained straight jacket; fidgeting against the canvas and biting his lip till he bled. He appeared off in his own haze as most of his crazy blue-haired type do. "Mr. Colt," the questioner snapped at him. The sharp sound of the walrus-like man's voice brought the sixteen year old to reality, but didn't do much to focus the thoughtful young man on the questioner. This place itself made him nervous as most places besides his room in his home did. The blank smoke-yellowed walls closed into his fractured blinking vision, bringing him and the hefty thickly-mustached questioner seemingly closer.  
"Y-yes?" he asked suspiciously forcing a smile from the questioner's face. It was cruel malicious, only too happy to see him cower. 'Colt' wasn't cowering at all; the questioner saw what he wanted to see. He was impatient as if wanting to get his sentence quickly. He had been very conscious of what he was doing and its repercussions. He had been prepared for it, and simply didn't feel the point in the preliminary intimidation.  
"Jonathon, my name is Gregory Samson. We're going to have a little talk and then you'll be returned to your cell for the night. Ok?"  
The voice communicated only condescension and mockery to this Jonathon character. The use of his full name irritated him, as much as the three syllables of it did. "Yes fine. Whatever," the youth responded. His physical unbalance had brought him sitting a little bit further up in the seat than he would have. He steadied himself before the questioning began, feeling very self-conscious as usual.  
"Good good. Now then I suppose we'll start with the sickeningly obvious. Now Jonathon why did you shoot those three boys and then drain all that blood? Wasn't that a little gross and time-consuming? I'd like to get to the bottom of the blood thing. Do you believe you're a vampire Mr. Colt?" the questioner said, sitting back in his chair; getting conformable as if this would take a very long time. He was probably just trying to communicate bodily that if Jonathon Colt was going to be obstinate then Mr. Samson would take all the time it needed.  
"In fact, draining the blood was a bit of overkill. I probably wouldn't have done it had I not needed to," Jonathon replied looking off to the side a little wistfully, sincerely reflecting on his actions. "But you know I really wanted them dead, and the monster-he's well, getting bigger you see. I can't handle him alone anymore, not without dying myself. *That* would be rather counterproductive, wouldn't you agree Mr. Samson?"  
The questioner quirked an eyebrow at the lad observing with a certain unease the simple change of personality. Mr. Colt was now chatty and animated, an open book to speak. For the time being Gregory was going to take advantage of Jonathon's talkative shift. He spoke intelligently, though Gregory couldn't identify intelligence if it became a trend.  
"Why yes. Yes I would agree. Why did you feel you needed to kill those three promising boys? What did they do to you that you felt deserved such retaliation?"  
Jonathon smiled, appearing glad he had finally been asked that. "Mr. Samson, whatever I get for killing them-the act in itself will ruin me for life right?"  
Gregory raised an eyebrow, feeling as though this were a segue at a lecture. "Multiple homicides tend to do that."  
The boy nodded as though making strong note of that. He continued struggling for composure as he spoke. Several times he began to speak, but paused. Finally Jonathon decided on something. "Well psychologically detrimental things tend to do that as well. So what's the difference if I got even for it or not? None, that's what," he uttered coolly.  
"That's how you feel Mr. Colt. The rest of the world believes that no matter how damaged a person is, that they can be healed through therapy and if necessary medication."  
"Then you've contradicted yourself Mr. Samson. I'm still quite damaged thank you very much, so no matter what I do about it there's always a way out."  
Gregory was taken aback for a moment. The boy was either very mentally damaged or just trying to cop out. "Murdering someone is different than just being hurt. Now explain why you felt you needed to kill those three young men."  
Jonathon sighed. This was getting more hopeless by the minute. His pending life behind bars wasn't what he cared about. His entire existence had been dedicated to getting a point across. It was all so hopeless, the only people who understood lay cold dead and mutilated. "I killed *them* because..." the boy blushed furiously and was ready to cry. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to tell it to this fat man who would just go home and joke about it to his stinking wife. His children would overhear the conversation, ask what the word 'rape' meant if they were younger or make some nasty homosexual comment about him. Jonathon wouldn't be there to defend himself; he'd be sitting in prison with his ass still sore.  
Resolute and composed, Jonathon calmly informed Gregory Samson, "I shot them so that I could drain their blood and sacrifice it to Satan." 


	2. Dillon

A/N: When everyone else is asleep, except for you and your best friend online happens to be a functioning male off on his own excursions...your JTHM rpgs you participate in aren't doing anything, and you can't think of anything to draw at the moment....you start to get wild ideas. Ideas something to the effect of continuing a long forgotten favorite and obvious hit. I have no idea what I'm doing. Guess who this new golden boy is.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Stop asking.  
  
Jonathon was starting to think his decision to recover dignity over the truth had been hasty. He thought this especially being handcuffed and hauled off to a mental institution after a less than glowing psychiatric exam. He had no idea what was going on anymore, they'd drugged him so very intensely. The sallow teenagers swallowed, he was starting to get cotton mouth from the chemicals being shoved through his veins. Or else it felt like that. Why did the hallway have to be so very long? It was like a dry yellowing vein in itself...he remembered a video clip he'd seen long ago of a smoker's lungs...he was inside a smoker's lungs...it was so very black, he figured the nicotine addict was dying and passing their death onto him. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be beaten, he wanted the noise in his head to quit. The squelch of flesh from both the rape experience and the killing experience was grotesque and livid in his mind. But somehow covered in his enemies blood, well he couldn't help but feel a little bit better before covering himself in vomit from an allergy to the medication and passing out. Such is life.  
  
Jonathon woke up forgetting what life was. For a blissful day or so in his white room forgetting anything before it and not expecting anything beyond it. He rejoiced in being so drugged, that no thought could slice his thick looming haze. The teenager couldn't have even if he wanted to. He couldn't remember who his parents were...he didn't know that they were dead and had been ashes for years, both shot during a break in when he was very small. He forgot his paternal grandfather Lloyd who was near his grave with worry, who'd raised Johnny. The old man knew he'd screwed up, but couldn't place where. Jonathon always had been quiet shy though opinionated if you got to talking to him, but far from violent. The teenager in question was in his mental shell...most of it was a self-imposed shield coupled with the medication to induce apathy. He would've loved it could he have felt. The boy had lusted for silence in his head, so he didn't have to talk himself. Now he had it. Even the trial was easily forgotten where his grandfather sobbed when he was taken away and locked in the looney bin for good. It was obvious to everyone with eyes Jonathon could never function. He'd never wanted to function, had been born a broken cog that just wanted a perfect nothing.  
  
Sitting, knees to his chin in the corner of the child to teenager's section of the hospital, those pale brown eyes glowered out in perfect harmony with his void. Yes Johnny was a murderer apparently, with muddy delusions but he was far from dangerous. Besides the staff hardly cared if they were to lose one or two patients to this Jonathon boy's outburst. On the other side of the room however, would be the end of that, this static version of sanity. He was a burly boy, made thick and was the cliched murderous type with his stringy black hair crafty blue eyes and deep perverted sounding voice. He was about the same age as Jonathon, fifteen and had indeed been committed for his rage problems after getting his dear granny and mother hospitalized. Of course no one knew that before he was big enough to fight them they'd beaten him with belts, starved him and made him sleep outside; turning him mean in the same fashion as a bulldog. He too was considered progressively unresponsive, difficult to talk to, all that. Who cared? The boy was just glad to be out of school. It appeared though, that he'd be making a new friend soon as he plunked himself down beside Jonathon. "What the fuck's with you?" he asked tone highly amused as he was by most things, his voice both baritone and grating to Jonathon's fragile silence. 


End file.
